


reaching for you (from the endless dream)

by HomebodyNobody



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Exes, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Major Illness, Mutual Pining, Post-Break Up, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomebodyNobody/pseuds/HomebodyNobody
Summary: Six months post-breakup, Bellamy gets a phone call from Clarke on a Friday night. She's crying, and she needs him, and he goes. He always does -- he always will.Prompt fill from tumblr: "People lie all the time" and "real smooth, tripping over air"(Curious as to how that fits in? so was I! but I managed.)(Title from 'here with me' by Susie Suh and Robot Koch)





	reaching for you (from the endless dream)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello this was a prompt from tumblr from like the last week of April but I am a /trash/ blogger who had finals… and then ADHD. But it's finished! and it's here! and it's... way longer than I thought it was. Get pumped for lots of tears, folx

Bellamy doesn’t really do parties. It’s not because he doesn’t have a lot of friends (okay, so he has like, three) but he tells himself it’s because he hates the crowds, the noise and the sweat from a mob of unruly drunken bodies. Also, he never gets invited to them. So it’s pretty normal that he’s sitting in his apartment on a Friday night, alone and tuning out the noise from upstairs. The room glows softly, all three sets of his fairy lights and his desk lamp on to keep the night at bay. Sitting on his messily made bed with its ancient, pilling dark green comforter, he holds his guitar on his lap, making a smudged mess of a piece of notebook paper as he strums a chord progression and tries to put his raspy voice over it. 

His phone starts to buzz relentlessly just as he’s figuring out the chorus, and he curses as he digs through his nest of pillows and blankets he’s created. When he finds it -- directly under his left knee -- the name on the screen drops a stone down his throat. It’s Clarke. In a panic, he jumps off his bed and stands in the middle of the room. After pacing a few times, he picks up. 

“Hey,” he breathes, and even though she’s not in the room, every sense is trained on what he can read of her reaction through the phone. His vision blurs, his hearing dulling until it’s just her voice, her breathing on the other end. They haven’t spoken in over six months, since their relationship ended, bloody and loud, at the beginning of the previous semester. She’d come back from the summer different, stony and just as impenetrable as she had been when they first met as bullheaded, impetuous underclassmen. They fought, but it was beyond the usual teasing and bickering. She never told him what happened. She shoved him away so violently, slammed all her walls down so fast he never really understood what he’d done wrong. 

“Bellamy?” her voice cracks on his name, and he hears the tears, thick in her throat. “I didn’t mean -- Oh God, I’m sorry, I --” her breath gasps and quakes in her chest. “I was just --” 

“Clarke, breathe,” he says, fighting to keep his voice even, to not let his own growing panic show through. “Take a breath, princess, you can do it.” The nickname slips out softly, a habit he never got past, and she squeaks on a sharp inhale. “Breathe with me, sweetheart, come on.” He squeezes his eyes shut, so tightly the world turns to stars, and leans his forehead against his door, one fist opening and closing, the other hand white-knuckled around his phone. His own breaths are shaky still, but hers finally slow to match. Flexing his hand against the door, he listens to Clarke’s shuddering breaths, and all he wants to do is find her, hold her, get so close he can’t tell his limbs from hers, let her fall asleep, safe in his arms. 

But he’s not allowed that, anymore. She left, and for all he wishes, he doesn’t think she’s coming back to him. “Can you come over?” she sniffles. It’s a weak and searching question, and she seems reluctant to even ask it. 

He pauses, remembering the last time they were in the same room, the hurled insults and the crackling tension. “Do you… think that’s a good idea?” he asks, and he’s hopeful, too, but cautious. Scared, like she is. 

“I --” she coughs and sniffles again, “I don’t care,” she huffs out on a sob. “I need you, Bellamy,” She cries for a moment more and he’s caught, frozen, logic and desire at war in his chest. Then, she says the word that breaks him, the word that always will. “Please.” 

It works. It always does. “I’m on my way,” he says, and it’s an exhale, a relief. It’s been half a year, but he still feels her absence as if it was fresh, like her voice on the other end of the line has ripped off the bandage over a festering wound. He tries not to think as he walks the few blocks downtown to her apartment. She lives in the complex in the center of downtown in their small college city, with the pool on the rooftop and the huge LED screens that plays the football games on Saturdays. It was a source of tension when they first met, what with Bellamy’s particular relationship to wealth. But then he got to know her, how sarcastic and hardworking and hilarious she was. How fiercely loyal and confident and determined. 

He fell in love with her. It was inevitable; they were two cosmic bodies orbiting each other, pulling one another in, a collision course destined to end in fire and destruction. But it was a gorgeous supernova while it lasted, red and golden and orange flashing in the darkness, light and fire, passion and flame. And then, like everything, it died. And he never knew why. He’s not sure how this is going to go, as he walks. He’s hopeful, as he always is. A life like his has taught him that as long as there’s still breath in his lungs, there’s hope. But he thought he knew Clarke, knew how her brain worked, how she thought and what she wanted. He understands humans, for the most part. Clarke used to tell him he was “good at people,” sometimes as a compliment, sometimes because she was being belligerent. 

But he lost her. She pushed him away, far enough that he couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t reach out and hold her when she needed him, couldn’t feel her warmth in the cold. Stepping up to the buzzer, Bellamy reaches out his hand, and falters. Every piece of advice Octavia’s ever given to him echoes through his mind, her unyielding criticism of everything Clarke had done, everything Octavia had blamed her for. But then he remembers his sister’s eyes, green and sharp as winter, desperate to prove herself, and push through anyone who gets in her way. Bellamy, with Clarke’s help, had begun to discover the ways his sister used him, how he had settled back into a secondary character in his own life. Octavia hated Clarke for that, and Bellamy hated himself for ever listening to her. He rings the buzzer. 

Clarke responds immediately, the door to the lobby clicking open. Hood up, hands planted firmly in his pockets, he’s not eager to meet the eyes of Sterling, the kid at the desk, or anyone he might know hanging out in the ground floor lounge. He recognizes the voices of Harper and Monroe over by the pool table; praying they don’t recognize him, he scratches the back of his head through his hoodie, using his arm to block his face. It doesn’t work, and Monroe calls his name, he turns, and their face lights up at the sight of him. “Bellamy!” they call, “hey!” 

He turns, slowly, his mind filtering through a thousand different responses and finding none. “Hey… dude,” he responds, and then physically flinches. Knowing he looks wrecked, his eyes stay on his shoes. 

Monroe’s cheerful expression slides off their face, replaced by a fleeting look of concern, immediately followed by understanding. Harper opens her mouth, but they nudge her in the ribs without looking. “Tell Clarke I hope she’s okay,” is all they say, before tugging on Harper’s elbow and directing her attention forcibly back to the game. Bellamy has some idea that they know something about the reason Clarke was crying on the phone, and that nags at him. 

He hates not being the first to know everything, anymore. Telling secrets was something Clarke was never good at; she struggled with every aspect of sharing her feelings, and Bellamy was the same. They were a grumpy, sometimes malaligned pair, but they fit, somehow. They were each other’s confidants, steady points, rocks in a frothing river. She has someone else for that now -- maybe more than one person. That hurts most of all, that he’s become insignificant. But, she did call. So maybe he still is her secret keeper. Monroe keys him into the elevator vestibule, so Clarke doesn’t have to come down and let him in. 

However, since he already rang the buzzer, she’s in the hall when the elevator opens, her keys in her hand. “How did you --” she starts, just as he says “I ran into --” She laughs, a half-made, awkward thing, and it hangs. Stepping out of the elevator, Bellamy notices the tear tracks on her face, the salt collecting in her eyelashes, her cheeks, bloated and red. It’s only second nature to step forward and cradle her face, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. She starts, when he touches her, and he freezes, but it’s only for a moment before she leans into his hand. “Clarke…” he says, and it’s a whisper, a breath, the fall of a crumbling wall, the dissolution of a half-made barrier. 

Rushing forward, she stumbles and crashes into his chest, tripping over her own feet. Her keys jangle behind his back, her face buried in his shoulder. His arms pause, hanging in the air for a moment before they clasp around her, his palms flat against her back. He can feel the warmth of her skin through her thin t-shirt, and her lips find their familiar place on his shoulder. It feels right, to have her back in his arms, to feel her breath and her pulse matching up to his. 

“Real smooth,” he grumbles to diffuse the emotional weight of the moment before it overflows, “Tripping over air.” He attempts nonchalance, but his heart thunders in his chest and his stomach is somewhere at the base of his throat. 

She chuckles, watery and soft against his skin. “Shut up.” Finally pulling away, Clarke swipes under her eyes with the cuffs of her white sweatshirt. Bellamy realizes with a jolt that it’s his, from his high school lacrosse team. She already looks different, even after only a few months. Her hair is shorter, cropped short around her chin, and there’s a shock of hot pink in the bottom three inches on one side, like she’d dyed it a long time ago and already and started growing it out. The sight chips a little deeper in the widening cavern in his chest. 

Turning and obviously expecting him to follow, Clarke heads towards her apartment. Once she’s around the first corner, Bellamy releases the breath he was holding, heavy and loud in the concrete hallway. It echoes louder than he anticipated; it feels like all the anxiety it contained settles in his hair and on his shoulders, and he resists the urge to shake it off. He settles for pulling his fingers through his hair before setting off after her. Clarke gives him a small smile when he catches up, and his stupid heart drops to his feet. Even with the tear tracks and the blotchy red face, she’s gorgeous. She’s ruined him -- he won’t find anyone more beautiful than her. 

Unlocking the door, Clarke sniffs before saying “Excuse the mess. It’s been a rough -- while.” Her space was usually fairly messy anyway, since she was both incredibly busy and wildly forgetful. But the scene they walk into looks like a bomb has gone off. Jackets and sweatshirts are on every surface of the living area, a stack of half-finished canvases sat next to the TV, and the dropcloth and easel look like they’ve been in the middle of the floor for over a month. Dust is thick on her bookshelf, and there’s a stack of dishes in the sink.

Bellamy feels a little sick and frustrated with himself. Because she lives without a roommate, there is no one around to monitor her, to pick her up and drag her out of the house when she is isolating herself and hibernating like a bear. When they were together, he usually took over that role; reminding her to eat, to switch the laundry, to not live like a hermit raised in a barn. Six months was too long to go without checking in. Part of him feels responsible for the place she’s in. 

Ignoring all of it, Clarke beelines for her bedroom. The bed, for some odd reason, is made, even though the floor is a thick carpet of t-shirts and tops. She clambers up on it and pulls a large stuffed deer into her lap, wrapping her arms around it and clinging to it for dear life. Her watery blue eyes watch him as he stood in the doorway, taking in the scene, his heart breaking even farther with each second. He didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. He should have been around to make sure it didn’t. 

She watches his face, and she still knows every line, every twitch and glimmer that gives away Bellamy’s every emotion. He’s shattering in slow motion, hairline crack by hairline crack, and it’s her that’s doing it to him -- seeing her in this state. And she’s watching him blame himself; it’s in the pucker of his eyebrows and the shift of his cheeks. The lump rises in her throat again, and she chokes back tears with an apology. “I’m sorry, Bellamy,” she sobs, and then drops her forehead against the stuffed animal. “I’m so sorry.” 

Bellamy steps on a pile of t-shirts and sinks down on the bed next to her, already hushing and comforting in his soft, deep voice. “It’s alright, it’s alright” he repeats, pushing the head of the deer aside so that she looks up at him. He’d gotten for her for their first -- and only -- valentine’s day together, because he’s a stereotypical cheesy romantic and for some reason, deer are Clarke’s favorite animal. “Hey, look at me. It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” she says, shaking her head, looking at him. The sudden closeness almost hurts. After six months -- half an entire year -- of barely hearing from her, seeing her only at parties and events, and now they’re alone in her bedroom, sitting on her bed, and she’s filling up the space with her eyes and her voice and her smell, and it’s almost too much. Clarke takes a deep, shaky breath, and moves the deer from her lap, turning to face him. Sitting criss-cross so they’re knee-to-knee, she takes his hands, and focuses on them as she speaks. “It’s not, because --” and her voice breaks, and he’s so glad she’s touching him, finally, so he can hold her hands tighter, give her some solid ground to stand on. “Because I hurt you, and I never told you why.” 

“Clarke,” he breathes, “We don’t have to do this now.” He smooths the hair off her forehead and he wants so badly to pull her into his chest and let her cry. He wants to let his touch shut out everything, make it just the two of them again, together against the world. 

But she doesn’t fall into him, just sniffles and wipes at her eyes again. Taking another deep breath, she seems to be preparing herself for something. “No,” she says, “We do, because --” another shuddering sigh. “Because I lied to you.” 

This one hits him in the chest, scooping away at the hollow already there. Bellamy and Clarke didn’t start their relationship well; there was a lot of screaming, and then light hearted banter, and even when they were together they fought and teased and bickered -- but there was never any lies. “About --” he stammers, “about what?” 

She drops her eyes, and he watches her struggle with what she’s about to say, watches her start to raise her walls again, and then pause, remembering who she’s with. Fidgeting, she adjusts her grip on his hands a few times before she begins. “When we --” She catches herself. “After I --” she tries once more before finally settling “at the end of that summer, I -- I left. And I told you it was because I thought we -- that we’d run our course and that I --” she chokes on her next words, “that I didn’t love you anymore.” her eyes start to fill. “And that was a lie. God, it was a lie.” 

Confused doesn’t even begin to cover where Bellamy’s at right now. Part of him is elated, that she hadn’t randomly fallen out of love with him, but he’s terrified of the possibilities of her lie. Maybe it really was something heinous, something he would never be able to forgive her for… although, he’s not entirely sure that’s possible. “What was it?” he asks. “What did -- what did you lie about?” 

Clarke pauses and sighs once more. “Do you remember my cousin Madi?” Bellamy nods slowly, not entirely sure where this is going. He’d met Madi at a few of Clarke’s family events. Thanksgiving, Christmas, things like that. Since his mother was dead and he’d stopped answering his sister’s calls, Clarke’s family had become his. Madi was a cute kid, fourteen and full of energy, ready to grow up, but not quite there yet. She hero-worshipped the both of them, but they didn’t mind. She was fun to hang out with, and pretty funny, and loved all the same old-school nickelodeon cartoons they’d grown up with. Bellamy’s stomach drops at the foreboding tone in Clarke’s voice. “She was diagnosed with some kind of rare blood disease at the end of last summer.” She says, all in a rush, like it’s a relief to get it off her chest.

“She got hurt, and her blood was almost black, and I was babysitting her and I had to take her to the hospital and she got put on permanent oxygen and then things just --” Clarke chokes on the words, her eyes filling with tears. “They only got worse from there, and now --” her tears are flowing now, collecting and dripping off her chin, but she just keeps talking, like she’s been holding on to it for too long and it all just needs to come out. “Her mom just called like half an hour ago and she’s in this experimental surgery and they don’t know if she’ll pull through and she’s halfway across the country in Polis and I’m stuck here, and I can’t -- I don’t know what to do and I just ---” she dissolves into too-quick breaths and sobs, and finally, Bellamy pulls her into his chest. Her face falling against his shoulder, she curls up into his lap, crying, ugly and loud against his neck. It hurts him, to feel her shaking in his arms, to know there’s nothing he can do but hold her, keep his arms as a boundary around the pain, so it can’t get any worse, so it can’t grow beyond something she can control. 

When she tires herself out, her breath evening as the tears subside, she laces her fingers around his shoulder and pulls herself closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again. She’s torn down and flagging, just so tired. She wants to lay down, to have Bellamy hold her so close she can’t tell where she ends and he begins. She wants to close her eyes and stop existing, just for a while. She wants to forget. 

Bellamy lifts her chin off his shoulder and pulls away slightly, enough to look her in the eyes. “If it’s forgiveness you need,” he says, brushing a piece of hair away from her eyes with his thumb. “You’re forgiven, okay?” His heart hammers in his throat, but he means it, every word. There are a thousand other emotions storming around in his chest; grief, for Madi, sadness and empathy for Clarke, and yes, a little bit of anger, too -- at the unfairness of Madi’s condition, even at Clarke, for not letting him help -- but she’s here, and she needs him, and he’ll do anything, to protect her. 

She bites her bottom lip, unable to pull her eyes from Bellamy’s, deep and brown, looking warm and genuine, feeling like home. “But I lied,” she whispers. She knows how much Bellamy values honesty, how he grew up surrounded by lies and treachery and sneaking around, and how he needs people to be upfront with him. She knows how hard this cut, her deceiving him. And as much as it makes sense, as much as she’s justified it these past six months, she hates herself for it, too. 

“Clarke,” he says, in a whisper, his voice cracking on the single syllable of her name. And that’s how she knows he’s sincere. It’s the same way he says her name at the end of every fight, the same way he says it when he gives in to every emotion, when he buckles under every burden he makes himself carry. His eyes start to well with tears, and he shakes his head, just the slightest, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s him saying don’t be naive, don’t think I would ever hold this against you. So much in this small gesture. “People lie all the time.” 

There isn’t anything left to say. She rests her hands on either side of his face, brushing her thumbs against his cheekbones, and rests her forehead against his -- a question. Breathing ragged, hands trembling, Bellamy pulls her lips to his. A kiss, so simple -- but an answer, a promise, a second chance, all the same. A whimper of relief creeps up the back of Clarke’s throat and -- like so many times before -- they fall into each other. It’s not perfect; they’re both a little teary and a little desperate, but they find their home in each other, and it feels like the first time all over again. It’s slow and sweet; she falls, and he catches her, again and again. 

When she finally pulls away, lips tingling, skin aflame, he nudges her nose with his. She almost laughs. That’s Bellamy’s move, something small that he doesn’t even realize he does. Something comforting; a reminder that he’s still here, present in the moment, all the way with her. “Will you stay?” she asks, smaller than a whisper. 

“Of course,” is all he says. It’s late already, and they’re both exhausted, so -- after a few minutes more of Bellamy holding her -- they separate. Clarke is already in her pajamas. Bellamy pulls off his shirt, and she tosses him a pair of his sweatpants without looking at him, her face red. He chuckles. “I’ve been looking for these.” 

“Shut up,” she mumbles, hiding under the covers. 

He turns off the light and climbs up behind her, his arm sliding around her waist, solid and strong. She closes her eyes and turns over, nuzzling into his chest. They lay in the dark for a while, Bellamy dozing, dragging his fingertips up and down her spine, Clarke trying to sleep, but with a white-knuckle grip on her phone, willing it to ring. The night wears on; eventually, Bellamy drops off, but Clarke stays awake, breathing him in, trying to find comfort in the circle of his arms, pacing her breaths to his even ones, lightly tracing her fingers over his face in the moonlight that filters through the curtains. She whispers apologies to him, over and over again -- not just for lying, but for leaving, for not explaining, for cutting and running right when she needed him most. She knows he can’t hear her, that he wouldn’t want to, wouldn’t let her blame herself, but it makes her feel better. 

At five, just as the sky is beginning to lighten, her phone rings. It had slipped between the two of them in the middle of the night, and the vibrating wakes Bellamy as well. Clarke rockets upright and answers it, her other hand clutched in her short blonde hair. Sitting up, Bellamy rubs a hand up and down her spine, attempting to hide the anxiety clawing at his chest. He has to be strong, for her. Her half of the conversation is just “yeah”s and “okay”s and finally, a “thank you. I love you, keep me posted.” She hangs up, and then turns and throws her arms around his neck. “She’s stable. She’s gonna be okay.” 

Bellamy holds on tight, feeling her press her smile against his shoulder, where her lips always find their way, where they belong. He lets out his own sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he sighs. Madi had started to take the place of Octavia in his heart, in terms of brotherly affection, and he had his own worry for her. “Oh thank fucking christ.” And then suddenly, they’re both laughing. 

She pulls away, puts her hands on his face like she had the night before. “She’s gonna be okay,”  
She laughs, and her smile is almost blinding. Clarke is his sunlight, his hope in the dark, and every time she smiles, he’s reminded of it. Her laugh is disbelieving, but bubbling and radiant. She stands up on her knees, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist. “Oh my god!” she says, like it’s finally sinking in, “She’s really gonna be okay!” She tries to jump up and down on her knees, but only succeeds in destabilizing herself and falling onto Bellamy, pushing him backwards onto the bed. 

He lets out a yell of fake indignation and rolls over, running his fingers up and down her sides with ruthless tickles. She squirms and shouts, still laughing, and as the sun creeps up over the buildings, they forget the past six months. In this moment, they never broke. They never spent too much time alone, thinking of the other. Clarke never pushed him away. Bellamy never let her. In this moment, there is only the early morning sun, and their impossible laughter, and the small victory of temporary relief. 

Finally, when Clarke is breathless and tears are starting to leak from her eyes, Bellamy stops the torture and leans in to kiss her, long and deep. She tangles her fingers in his hair and can’t stop smiling against his lips, as these last hours have brought her more happiness than she could have ever imagined. She wraps her legs around his waist and tries to pull him closer, but he pulls away. “Wait --” he says. With his hair impossibly messy like that, his lips shining and his cheeks flush, it’s the last thing she wants to do, but she stops. His eyes are wild, and she can tell he wants this as much as she does, but something is (barely) holding him back. “Why did you call me?” They both knew there were several other people she could have called, people that definitely would not have brought even more emotional baggage to the table. 

Her heart jumps to the base of her throat, a blush rising in her cheeks. It’s stupid, and embarrassing, and she hides her nervous chuckle in his shoulder. “It’s stupid,” she says. He rolls off her (unfortunately), and settles next to her on his side. 

“Tell me,” he urges, holding her hand when she places it over his heart. 

She focuses on her palm against his bare chest, the heat of him, the contrast of their skin. “Remember when we met at that like -- peer mentor thing, and you had to give us all your phone number?” Bellamy nods, remembering the day they met. Clarke was a new freshman, Bellamy a sophomore who had somehow landed a position as a peer mentor for Arcadia University’s honors program ‘freshman experience.’ His contempt for the position had been obvious, and none of his students had liked him, and vice versa. The ‘mentor feedback’ forms from that year ensured it was a one-time gig for him. It wasn’t until he and Clarke met at a party several months later that they discovered they actually liked each other. “Well, I uh…” a smile tugs at one corner of her mouth, and she taps her fingertips against his chest. “I put you in my phone as ‘raging asshole.’” 

He barks out a laugh, and she hurries to correct the situation, her hands fluttering as he curls forward with the force of his surprise. “I changed it when we started dating!” she insists. He shakes his head, waving her off, gesturing for her to continue her story. “Well, after we, uh --” she doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to hear her say it. “Well, after, I changed it back. And then, last night, I was trying to call Raven, and I hit your number instead.” 

“So… it was an accident?” he asks, wondering why he feels disappointed. 

“I guess,” she says. But then; “But you picked up the phone, and I realized -- it was you, I wanted here. It was you I needed.” He surges forward to kiss her again, and when she pulls him closer, he doesn’t stop. 

After, when they’re laying skin-to-skin and the morning has taken over the room, Clarke looks up at Bellamy from where she’s laying on his chest. Soft golden light filters through the curtains and falls across his relaxed, pensive face, setting his bronze skin aglow, turning his deep brown eyes into liquid amber. His fingers are drawing absent patterns across her skin, and she’s sated and safe and happy. “Bellamy?” she asks, easy, but still worried at the answer. 

“Yeah?” he responds, adjusting his position so he can look her in the eyes. 

It almost stops her heart, that this beautiful man can be so good, and come back to her again. “Do you --” she pauses to heave a deep breath. “Do you think you could love me again?” 

His face softens, and he brings a hand up to pull her chin up, giving her a sweet, slow kiss. “Don’t you know?” he says, “I never stopped.”

**Author's Note:**

> remember to tip your fic writers  
> (the tips are comments)
> 
> greenishgriffin on tumblr


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